The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  In seven hundred dragons and countless smaller craft, the Viking fleet sailed up the Seine. The sleek vessels stretched out a full, two Roman miles. Where they passed, men said, the river disappeared as if in a great cavern. Horns wailed. Thousands of husky rowers chanted a dirge to death-dealing Odin.

  Those Vikings who merely wanted land had settled in the Danelagh or lived like jarls back home with a hundred years of booty. These were the hardened fighters. The warriors at the oars delighted in the cries of the defeated. They were veteran looters, black-hearted, merciless, two-legged beasts of prey. They had discovered that no other passions brought such pleasures as bloodletting, rape and handling stolen booty. They had learned that no one in the open field could stand against them. It would be a simple matter taking Paris, a few bashed skulls and then another bevy of maidens before they sailed upstream into virgin Burgundy.

  Two hundred pitiful swordsmen shivered on the isle to oppose them. According to Sigfred’s spies, the defenders were led by a cowardly count and an old, although once stubborn, bishop. A few words would move them, and if that proved insufficient then a quick assault would give them an evening’s entertainment as they pulled out the survivors’ intestines and made the fools dance with fire.

  30.

  “What chance do we have?” Judith whispered.

  It was November 24 and Odo and she stood alone in the Saint John Tower as her quilted cloak flapped in the breeze. Church bells rang as the vanguard of the Northmen’s fleet sailed into view. Those wooden hulls stretched back out of sight. Each vessel carried giant marauders, muscled terrors hauling on the oars. On Paris’s walls men cried out in despair. Serfs fled from the fields and children wailed as their mothers snatched them up and raced for the gates. Three riders madly galloped down from the Montmartre heights.

  Odo mumbled under his breath, counting ships, until he stirred, smiled at his love and placed a hand over his chain-mailed heart. “This is our chance.” He wrapped his fingers around a sword hilt. “And this helps improve the odds. But the truth—” He slapped the battlement. “Impervious stone will break the Northmen’s valor.”

  “That’s true for the isle, but what about the Merchant Quarter and South Town?”

  Odo grew quiet. Those dragons kept coming and coming. Trumpets pealed as swordsmen raced from within the city and toward their assigned positions. One man hurried up a roof, jumped onto another and climbed straight up a wall, with his javelins slung across his back.

  Fortunately, Gozlin had won the race with the Ill de le Cite, the island heart of Paris that sat like a toad in the river. Stout walls of stone circled this watery burg. Some of those stones were as old as the Romans; some were set just this autumn. In places the Seine lapped against the wall, in others there was land enough for crickets and frogs but hardly enough for Northmen beaching longships. The isle was a citadel, too small to hold all the people over many months of siege—if by God’s will, it came to that. Could he convince the sea rovers to leave? By the beard of Saint Martin, there were thousands of them! The next part of the defenses was the two strategic bridges. The Grand Pont on the north was a massive thing of stone. On the south was a longer, wooden bridge. Both had ramparts high enough against dragons so that the defenders would fight as if behind city walls. Yet each bridge was low enough so no dragon could sail underneath. There was a third bridge: the Petit Pont built in the reign of Charles the Bald. It linked the westernmost point of the isle—the downstream location and closest to these approaching longships—with open abbey land on the north bank. A half-built tower protected the Petit Pont. That unnamed tower was the most exposed spot of the defense. The Petit Pont was important because it acted as a seawall for the Merchant Quarter, the city built along the north bank of the Seine. Gozlin’s crews had worked like devils. Portions of the Merchant Quarter had walls of stone, but too much of its length was timber and ditch. The South Town (built on the south bank of the Seine) had a greater expanse of stone, and the seawall there was stouter than the north’s. Both the north and southern portions of the city were directly opposite the isle. Outside the land-walls were abbeys, fields and too many vineyards. On the north was the abbey of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. On the south were the abbeys of Saint Genevieve and Saint-Germain-des-Pres and their many barns and storehouses. Hardworking serfs had torn down great heaps of lumber and piled it in the city. They had uprooted countless vines and carted away barrels of rocks, but too much yet remained.

  “I know you’re a gambler, milord,” Judith said. “But how can you possibly imagine yourself victorious against that?”

  Odo had grown solemn. “It depends on Duke Hugh or the Emperor. Either or both must bring an army.”

  She shook her head, whispering, “We’re doomed.”

  He tore his gaze from the fleet and forced himself to smile. He tipped up her chin and kissed her sweet lips.

  “You should not do that, milord. Others will see and report it to Gozlin, or maybe they’ll hurl stones this time instead of turnips.”

  He glanced at the fleet and then looked away as if it burned his eyes. He took her hands, clutching them to his chest. “Tell me, Judith, how much longer do we have together?”

  “We’re about to die and you want to lie with me?”

  “I fear we only have a little time left us. We must live it to the fullest.”

  She looked up into his eyes. Then she cried out, hugged and kissed him. “Milord, milord, you must defeat these Danes. If you lose, some Northern beast will take me in his arms. I forbid you to lose. I urge you to devise clever stratagems and save us all from their terrible fury.”

  Odo shivered from his lingering chill and he faced the dragons, that amazing horde. He counted near seven hundred ships. Northmen with poles stood along the gunwales and pushed each other when the longships jostled too near. Others blew cow-horns and Northmen cheered and shook swords and spears. One by one, the dragons slid toward shore. In the lead ships big men splashed into the water. They grabbed ropes and dragged their boats onto the fields by the north bank.

  The Great Pagan Army had finally arrived.

  ***

  The Northmen made camp that day. It was a raucous affair. At times horse-riding Danes approached the Merchant Quarter. They pointed at the walls and wooden towers, argued and rode on. The next morning twenty reavers under a white flag marched for the Merchant Quarter’s main gate. A lone, Frank herald trotted out the gate. The herald returned, ducking under the postern door as his horse squeezed through. He trotted to Odo, Gozlin and the company of knights around them in the street. Without dismounting, the herald told them that King Sigfred wished for a conference.

  Odo immediately shook his head. He had been expecting this. “We can’t let them look at our inner defenses.”

  “Talk can’t hurt us,” Gozlin said, as he leaned upon a cane.

  Odo glanced at a barking dog that rushed in to nip a wandering pig. The pig turned with a squeal and the dog skidded to a halt, backing up and barking louder.

  “Vegetius would not agree, Your Grace,” Odo said. “Many a stoutly held city has been talked into surrendering.”

  “There are rules to war,” the Bishop said crossly.

  Odo shook his head. “Better to let them in and butcher this sea king. A blow to the brain might well kill the horde. The others will quarrel, perhaps even war among themselves for leadership.”

  Gozlin glared at Odo, shaking his cane. “I will never break my solemn word. Do you hold your oath so cheaply?”

  Odo noted the effect of the Bishop’s words on the knights around them. The hotheaded knights had made a cult of honor. They were not like Julius Caesar, who knew when to break his word for maximum advantage. Odo fingered his chin, thinking fast. He could not let the bishop outface him, but he didn’t know—ah. Sometimes a tactical retreat was wisest, so had said Vegetius.

  Odo made a graceful bow. “You are my conscience, Your Grace. I thank you for your words. I now beg you grant me this request. Let us
speak with Sigfred inside that hut yonder. Do not let him any farther into the city.”

  “There is no dignity that smelly hut,” Gozlin said. “We shall meet in that house there.” He pointed at the home of one of his knights. “Go,” he told the herald, “admit the Sea King into our presence.”

  The herald pulled the reins to his horse, turning his mount back toward the postern door.

  It left Odo glum, realizing that men still looked first to Gozlin to protect them. He had to chance that if they were to survive the siege.

  ***

  The Dane was a giant with a great black beard. He wore an otter cloak and black armor the color of mud. Thick gold bands circled his oaken arms. His blue eyes were keen and intelligent like some mighty sea eagle. He had an aura of command, like a prize bull; and in a host noted for its savage warriors, he had a reputation of fury in battle, a stealer of souls. Among his guard of brawny cutthroats were three evil berserks. The first was a primeval throwback with a low sloping forehead and shoulders even more massive than the Sea King’s. He should have been slow, but the berserk moved with silky grace and there burned in his small eyes evil intelligence. The second wore a wolf-headed cap, was lean and arrogantly grinned. The last was a rangy youth with haunted eyes. Doom seemed to ride his shoulders.

  Sigfred left his guard in the outer chambers and stepped into the meeting room with Bjorn and an interpreter. The wizened interpreter had a scraggly white beard and dotted tattoos on his cheeks that spiraled inward to a blue point. He was a Finn, darker-skinned than the Danes, with thin wet lips and eyes of ratty cunning. He was the Sea King’s wizard and wore a silken robe like a priest.

  Gozlin and Odo sat in chairs around a table, with several mailed nobles behind them. Sigfred and the interpreter sat down. Monstrous Bjorn guarded their back.

  The Sea King pierced Gozlin with a glance and spoke in a measured tone. The wizened interpreter listened closely and then repeated the words in Frankish:

  “Gozlin, have compassion on yourself and on your flock. We beseech you to listen to us, in order that you may escape death. Allow us only the freedom of the city. We will do no harm and we will see to it that whatever belongs to either you or to Odo shall be strictly respected.”

  Gozlin nodded as he listened. Then he clutched the cross in his lap and aimed his words at the Sea King. “Paris has been entrusted to us by the Emperor Charles, who, after God, king and lord of the powerful, rules over almost all the world. He has put it in our care, not at all that the kingdom may be ruined by our misconduct, but that he may keep it and be assured of its peace. If, like us, you had been given the duty of defending these walls, and if you should have done that which you ask us to do, what treatment do you think you would deserve?”

  The interpreter spoke the barbarous Northman’s tongue. As he listened, the small-eyed berserk grinned, exposing outsized teeth.

  Sigfred didn’t share his pleasure. He spoke roughly. “I should deserve that my head be cut off and thrown to the dogs. Nevertheless, if you do not listen to my demand, on the morrow our war machines will destroy you with poisoned arrows. You will be prey of famine and of pestilence and these evils will renew themselves perpetually every year.”

  When the interpreter finished, Sigfred rose and in a swirl of his otter cloak stalked from the room.

  The berserk with the primitive features rumbled words. The wizard fervently glanced at the monster and shook his head. The berserk laid huge fingers on the little Finn’s shoulder.

  The wizard winced and bowed to Gozlin. “Bjorn admires your words, Churchman. He bids me say that when you are dead he will polish your skull and nail it to an Odin Tree.”

  Sir Arnulf—one of the mailed guards—drew his sword and might have charged, but two other knights held him back.

  The berserk’s eyes glittered. Then he turned as if from yapping curs and followed the Sea King outdoors.

  31.

  That night in the Church of Saint Etienne candles flickered in profusion and shimmered off earnest faces. The commanders prayed on their knees to Saint Genevieve. With his old man’s wrinkled hands, Gozlin touched her bones and implored her to beseech the Virgin Mary to ask the Lord Jesus to send the angels of Heaven to help them. Next Ebolus clutched a ragged cloak and prayed to Saint Germain. The cloak—a holy relic—had been Germain’s the time he had first met Genevieve when she had been a young child in Nanterre in 429. They prayed and afterwards argued. Gozlin’s commanders were Abbot Ebolus, Sir Arnulf and Count Herkenger. Robert and Wulf were Odo’s men.

  Count Odo unrolled his cowhide map across the altar. Charcoaled onto it was a map of Paris and the surrounding countryside. He stabbed a finger at the place where the Northmen had beached their dragons, and he looked up at Arnulf and Count Herkenger. “Sieges are about food and drink. For the moment, we have plenty and so do they. Next, they are about heart. Whose beats most passionately?”

  “You seek to teach us about war?” Count Herkenger asked stiffly. The slender East Frank was olive-skinned and stood straight as a sword. Scars marked his arms, and his shoulders were crooked. There was about him deadly intensity and the pride of an unbeaten warrior. His father (who had long warred in Italy where the Greek Byzantines held lands) had married the daughter of a Byzantine strategos. Herkenger had a narrow face and a thin dark mustache. Like Ebolus, he was a nephew of Gozlin. Many considered him the finest lancer in Paris.

  “Our Count has read Vegetius,” fat Ebolus said. “Now, Odo thinks himself an expert on battle and sieges.”

  “War is fought with swords, sir,” Herkenger said, staring arrogantly. “It is fought with courage.”

  “And skill, too,” Odo said calmly.

  “Skill is won through scars,” Herkenger said. “Where are your scars, Count?”

  With a jangle of mail-armor, Robert angrily stepped forward.

  “Easy, brother,” Odo said, who had a strained smile. “Count Herkenger fails to grasp an essential point.”

  Herkenger leaned across the altar. “You say this about my knowledge of war?”

  “Among us here,” Odo said, “you certainly have fought the most battles.”

  Herkenger smiled stiffly, mollified for the moment.

  “Among us, Count Herkenger is the most skilled and knowledgeable,” Ebolus said in a wheezing voice.

  “No,” Odo said. “There you are wrong.”

  “You think that you are the most skilled?” Ebolus said with a wet laugh. “Who counseled us into sending those oxcarts into the Northmen’s hands?”

  Odo shook his head. “I said go at night. You went at dawn.”

  Sir Arnulf, who had been fingering the burned half of his face, flushed with anger. “Are you saying I’m at fault?”

  “Peace!” Odo said. “I accuse no one. The Northmen outmaneuvered us.”

  “Those are pretty words for a defeat that shouldn’t have happened,” Herkenger said. “We walked into that one.”

  “It was a bad idea,” Arnulf said, who glared at Odo with his single eye. “I was lucky to save the horsemen.”

  “You mean you bolted like a rabbit,” Robert said.

  With an oath, Arnulf pulled his sword half out its scabbard.

  “This is the house of God!” Gozlin said, outraged. “We are not pagans to spill blood on holy ground. You jeopardize your soul by your warm temper, sir.”

  Arnulf chewed his lip and then rammed his sword back into its scabbard.

  Odo spoke into the silence. “I would answer Count Herkenger and our dear abbot with a question. Who among us has talked to God face to face? Have you, Your Grace?”

  Gozlin was tightlipped as the clutched the silver communion chalice.

  “None of us has seen God,” Odo said. “Yet we speak with knowledge and authority about Him because we have read the words of those who did see and speak with God. Written words, sir,” he told Herkenger, “are spoken thoughts given in the language of ink. Among us, Vegetius has the most battle scars. I have spoken intimately w
ith him and taken his council, just as Gozlin and Ebolus read Holy Writ and tell us what God has said.”

  “You reason like a fox,” Herkenger said, “and sound like a Byzantine.”

  Robert glowered angrily.

  Odo soothed his brother before forcing a grin at Count Herkenger. “Perhaps what we need against the Northmen is a fox.” He touched the map, his finger at the location of the beached dragons. He slid his finger to the Petit Pont and the half-finished tower there. “Here is where the Northmen will strike first. It will give them their easiest victory. And if the tower is taken the bridge becomes indefensible and that opens the Merchant Quarter to a river-borne attack.”

  Herkenger studied the map, grunting after a time. “What do you suggest, sir?”

  32.

  Dawn. The bells of Paris clanged as Northmen marched with a shout from their campfires. They crunched across lightly snowed fields, thousands of killers, rapists and reavers, bearded giants with gaunt savage faces. They bore ten thousand scars gained in a hundred skirmishes and sieges. They had savored such countless victories that now they mocked defeat. Their banners waved arrogantly; red, black and blue flags flapped. Each warband bore its own device. These flags and banners were considered mystical, long ago (it was said) given by Odin, Frey or the Thunder God Thor. As they marched, the warriors chanted rough songs. Some rovers wore hardened leather jerkins; others had scale shirts that shimmered like mirrors. The most dangerous clinked in iron-link byrnies, war-loot gained across the years. Deadly axes and spears glittered in the dawn light. Big wooden shields protected their bodies. The shields were dyed red, yellow and colorful blue. Through helmets, past matted yellow locks or simply forthrightly, they riveted their gaze upon the lone stone tower at the end of the Petit Pont.